Pesterances
by RandomHatTheif
Summary: Few things bother Arthur, most of which he can rattle off on one hand. However, one simple pleasure he's found can be an unforgiving mistress. In fact, she often bruises him. America & England. No real pairings. Rated for Artie's mouth.


**Pesterance(s)**

Very few things in this world have the capacity to get under the skin of one Arthur Kirkland in any sense, be it good or bad. In fact, Arthur could count both tallies on his fingers alone. As per the annoyances were two men; Francis Bonnefoy(and his band of numbskulls) for the simple reason that the Frenchman was consistently doing inappropriate things to Arthur's person and suggesting that he and Arthur engage in further horrid things in darkened rooms, and the second bother comes in form of his own brother, Scott, whom insists that faeries had stolen Arthur as a baby and ruined him. This led his sibling -after coming home smashed- to douse Arthur in holy water and yell Psalms 23 in a harsh Scottish accent.

On the other hand, among the things that the blonde couldn't help but enjoy were his Rock music(which Francis continues to call it a foul excuse for melody), his mythical friends(sweet little things, that never meant him harm), his cat Biscuit, and finally, the feeling he was about to indulge in. A smile slips itself onto his face as he exits his school and unlocks his bicycle from the rack.

Yes.

The feeling of momentum-made wind on his face, turning his nose raw and destroying the attempt at decent hair he worked to maintain all day. Unlike most people, who found the activity freeing, Arthur had to disagree. With the rubber under the pads of his palms, his index and middle fingers rested idly on the breaks on either side, his feet powering the entire machine, using power from his thighs, and above all this the way his beloved contraption moved with the will of his body. Arthur swerved dangerously in the parking lot before hitting the streets. He adored the control his had over this, the way he could watch his tires decline closer and closer to horizontal until he so chose to save them and stand the bike back up with only the movement of his hips.

He righted himself and wiped the smile off his face as he turned onto the main road. He only had to ride about half a mile until he took a back road the rest of the way home. Arthur didn't like the mainstream traffic, brimming with new drivers and idiots more concerned with radio stations and boiling coffee. He much preferred the cobblestone that lead to dirt where few cars ever drove.

Arthur took his turn and let himself smile again, enjoying his ride and attempting new tricks. He laughed, a rare sound these days, and honestly, relished in the feeling. He stood the bike up on it's back wheel when he hit a flat spot, and brought it back down wriggling in internal smugness. That is, until a harsh sound resonated with his eardrums and he turned on the seat. Advancing smoothly on him, was a faded red BMW, captained by none other than one of Francis' idiots, Gilbert, the German. He was hung out the driver's window, yelling for Arthur's attention. Antonio, a Spaniard, manned the middle seat, blabbering happily about nonsense, and Francis was leaned on his elbows out the passenger window, on the side of Arthur.

"Bloody Hell..." Arthur leaned his head on the handle bar for a moment, lifting it only when the advancing car got to close for his comfort and he swerved farther from the margin. The BMW pulled up beside him, slowing to his pace and leveling Francis with the Englishmen.

"Hallo again, mon amour."

"Bugger off, Frog!" He glared for all he was worth at the blonde hanging out the window, whom only fawned a hurt expression and less than a second later, grinned devilishly.

"Why is it that you reject me, Arthur? I could make you feel so wonderful if only you would allow-"

"I said go away Francis!" He glared once more, turning his eyes from the road, "I do _not _have _any_ desire to be aware that you're alive, much less anything more. You are a _pest_. _Leave, dammit!_" He turned back to the road stubbornly, refusing to watch Francis blow off his words yet again.

Francis babbled on for a while, talking on about all the things he would do to Arthur, watching with glee as the cyclists neck, face, and ears took on a brilliant shade of red. After he was bored of the one-sided conversation, he turned to pout to his friends. Antonio frowned at Arthur and Gilbert took it upon himself to chunk a full can of soda out the window at him. It collided with Arthur's helmet and sent him off kilter and tumbling towards the ground.

For that moment, Francis wasn't watching with horror, and Gilbert wasn't laughing and driving away in merriment. Arthur's sole focus was the handle bar crammed under his ribs, the awkward way his leg was stuck painfully between the hot rubber of the front tire and the pedal. He had stiffened his neck, closed his mouth loosely, and managed to hit grass instead of pavement. He groaned and managed him lift himself awkwardly onto his elbows from where he'd landed with he head more downhill than his hips. A groan came from his throat and his head fell back against the strain of his neck. He must have skidded a bit because there was a strawberry on his back, he could feel it beginning to bleed, and he must have smacked his shoulders, because they were stinging. He laid back down for a moment, kicking at his bike until they were indeed two separate beings once more.

Arthur didn't pay much heed to the sound of a door opening and closing, until footsteps skidded to a stop at his side, just above(or below, technically) his head. He forced his eyes open to meet the worried and slightly awed expression on the face of one of his fellow students. An American, loud and eccentric and always talking too loud or eating too much despite his obvious physique. His name -Arthur was pretty sure- was Alfred. Dammit, he should know this, Alfred talks to him all the time, though the conversations are mostly one sided, which, Alfred doesn't seem to mind.

"Whoa, _dude!_ That was awesome from my angle!" He smiled broadly down at Arthur, upside down as he sat hovering over the Brit's head.

"Not for me. Ugh. Bloody Hell my _head_..." He brought a hand to the back of his neck and groaned.

"Oh! Sorry Artie! I'll help you up!" Alfred thought nothing of it as he slipped his arms under Arthur's and hauled him up to rest him against his own chest. Arthur flushed at the contact -a habit of his own body- and kicked to find traction as Alfred lifted them both onto their feet. With another gasping groan, Arthur shifted all of his weight onto one foot and cupped his aching ribs. Alfred stared at him for a second or so, making sure he'd be fine, and lifted Arthur's bike under his arm easily.

"I can get that!" Arthur hobbled to grab for his bike, not at all willing to be helped by this idiot this much, but once again stumbled to be caught clumsily by Alfred's free arm.

"No you can't, Artie," He laughed and swooped to lift Arthur by his upper thighs, flipping the man over his shoulder. Arthur shrieked and clung desperately to Alfred's shirt, clawing at his shoulders to right himself again as the younger man walked with him.

"Alfred! Put me down this instant! What are you doing?" Arthur slipped down a ways and had to wrap his legs around the American so they wouldn't get tangled with the ones propelling them both. He glared at Alfred, who pointedly ignored it with a grin, and noted that Alfred was toting him toward a small house, "Is that your house?"

"Yep! I like it, it's cozy." He smiled proudly and settled the bike against the outside wall, opening the door and dipping so Arthur wouldn't smack his head on the door frame, "I bet it's not as cool as yours though, huh pretty boy?" He snickered at that, earning a smack to the back of his head.

"I am not, you twit! I can't help it if you're not intelligent enough to appreciate my class! I'm a gentlemen!" He continued to glare as he was sat on a downed toilet seat.

Alfred nodded along with him, grinning and rummaging through his cabinets.

"What are you bloody doing?"

"Looking for that tube of stuff my mom used to put on my cuts.. ahHA!" He lifted to tube in all it's half-empty, crinkly, yellow glory for Arthur to see.

"And what do you expect to do with that?" The American deflated as he was snapped at, defiance and deviousness soon replacing that hurt. He sat on the edge of the tub and grabbed the back of Arthur's shirt, flipping it over his head and shoulders before he could stop him.

He snickered at what he saw. Firstly, there was a fair-sized injury on his lower back, right alongside a tramp stamp of an electric guitar. Arthur flailed then, shoving his shirt back down with a glare that could melt the poles of the Earth. Alfred smiled and gripped the corner of his shirt again.

"Stop being a schoolgirl and let me put this on that strawberry already, Artie."

"My name is _Arthur_, you idiot, not Artie." With that, he lifted his shirt enough to see the wound, not the tattoo.

"Yeah, but Artie's cuter. Don't you think?" Alfred flashed him yet another grin and his ears got hot.

"_No! _I most certainly do _not_, Alfred." He resisted the urge to flinch when Alfred coated the wound.

"Why don't you call me Al? Then it'd be fair." He reached for an oversized Band-Aid and peeled it back like he'd done it a lot. Maybe he had, he was pretty clumsy.

"Because I refuse to engage in the giving of pet-names with you of all people." At this, Alfred smoothed the bandage and frowned at Arthur.

"Me of all people? What's that supposed to mean? I'm nice to you!" He pouted and Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. Alfred was right. He'd provided Arthur with constant company in their classes, and attempted to coax a smile from him on many occasion. He sighed.

"I suppose. Al, right?" He glared at the tile of Alfred's bathroom, only to be engulfed in a bear hug by the blue-eyed blonde at his side.

"Awesome! Hey Artie?" He smiled awkwardly up at Arthur, having been leaned over to hug his waist, despite being a head taller. Arthur wriggled under the slightly painful grasp.

"What? Get off me, it hurts!"

"Oh sorry!" Alfred retracted himself, still brandishing that smile as he scratched awkwardly at his neck, "Does this mean we're friends?"

Arthur froze as Alfred began the motions of putting his things away, glancing at his green eyes companion when nothing was said. Arthur had turned that familiar pink color and sputtered for a moment. He interrupted the decision, offering tea, which Arthur mentioned that he'd like some.

Alfred returned to his living room with two glasses of ice tea, which he was chewed out for, because Arthur wasn't fond of the stuff.

"Soo?" Alfred took a swing of his tea and wiped at his upper lip with his sleeve, a motion that Arthur wrinkled his nose at.

"So what, git?"

"Are we friends?"

"...Sure. Why not?"

Alfred grinned at him then, grabbing the remote and propping his feet on the table, "Awesome, then my first act as your best friend, will be to force you through the Saw marathon!" He cackled and Arthur kicked his calf.

"Get your feet off the table, Alfred."

"_Al_."

"Al, then."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Unfortunately, Pesterance is not a word.

Oh how I wish it was.

Anyway, enjoying this I suppose.


End file.
